Menace for Dr. Morelle

by Ernest Dudley

  “I had noticed your presence, my dear Miss Frayle . . . Though, as I believe I have already observed, the lateness of your arrival——”

  “Better late than never,” she put in spiritedly. Her spectacles flashed resentfully at him as she realized her story had made as little impression upon him as water on a duck’s back.

  “That,” he retorted, “is a debatable point!” He went on briskly: “Allow me to indicate the hour is approaching 8.45 and we are due at Lady Tonbridge’s at nine o’clock. I suggest you might care to hasten——”

  “But—but, Doctor Morelle,” Miss Frayle cried, “haven’t you been listening to what I’ve just been telling you?”

  “I think I may say I did not miss a word, so enthralling was your narrative . . . Do please hurry.”

  “But isn’t there anything we ought to do? Or do you think—that is—haven’t you any explanation——?”

  “Any comment I might make would be entirely superfluous,” he answered dryly.

  “You mean you—you don’t believe me?”

  “On the contrary, I believe you implicitly. Even your imagination could not rise to such heights!”

  She searched his face in an effort to read what lay behind its cold, mask-like expression, but it was as enigmatic as ever. His eyes, glittering and disconcerting, mocked her with sardonic amusement through a cloud of cigarette-smoke.

  Flicking the ash off his Le Sphinx, suddenly he turned on his heel and stalked off, leaving her to trail after him, helplessly bewildered.

  Chapter Four – Baron Xavier Makes His Bow

  Miss Frayle had been looking forward to this evening with eager anticipation ever since Doctor Morelle had—much to her surprise—accepted Lady Tonbridge’s invitation to attend her reception given for a certain Baron Xavier. It was not a habit of the Doctor’s to attend society functions. In fact, much to her regret, he almost invariably deplored them as a puerile form of exhibitionism, not to say waste of time. On a rare occasion, however, he did accept an invitation, as now. Usually, Miss Frayle would discover afterwards there had been some ulterior motive behind his acceptance, rather than any social pleasure it afforded him.

  Whether that applied in this case, she did not know and, frankly, cared less. It was enough for her that the Doctor had accepted the invitation and, to her surprised delight, had informed her he expected her to accompany him. Though the keen edge of her anticipation had been somewhat blunted by her mysterious adventure and Doctor Morelle’s subsequent displeasure, now, as the car bore them towards Belgrave Square, her spirits rose.

  She remembered the Doctor had hinted that some time in the past—before her association with him—he had been successful in extricating a member of the Tonbridge family from some dangerous entanglement with an extremely attractive Continental confidence-trickster. As a result, Lady Tonbridge’s regard for the Doctor was high.* [* The case had international ramifications which made it indiscreet to publish at the time. It is hoped, however, it may be included in future memoirs of Doctor Morelle.] Hence, she supposed, her invitation and his acceptance.

  So far as Miss Frayle was aware, the Doctor was not acquainted with the one the party was in aid of—Baron Xavier. And her knowledge of him was confined to what she had gathered from those glossy illustrated magazines portraying Society: generally perched on a shooting-stick lugubriously watching something, or else in a night-club or restaurant, snapped in the act of taking an enormous mouthful. The Baron, Miss Frayle had gathered, was an ex-prince of an obscure mid-European royal family which once had its place in the jig-saw of international politics. Though what place it had been exactly she had never bothered to learn.

  The Baron was young, good-looking and charming and was well liked in England where he had now made his home. That was the sum total of Miss Frayle’s knowledge of the Baron Xavier. Combined, however, with the fact that a good number of other celebrities would also be present, she was warmly thrilled at the prospect of an exciting evening. She became aware Doctor Morelle was giving her a sidelong glance. She caught the chilling gleam showing momentarily in his eyes.

  “It is apparent you are suffering from no after-effects of your adventure,” he murmured, as she turned to him.

  He was still harping on her being late for his blessed lecture! She apologized again. “I’m most dreadfully sorry, Doctor,” she began to mumble, then broke off. Feeling somewhat thankful for the darkness of the car, she realized she obviously did not appear in the least sorry. Any feelings on the subject she may have had were now entirely forgotten looking forward to the party.

  “Hmmm . . .” was his only comment.

  And although she did not look, she knew instinctively his high-bridged nose was once again faintly lifted. She stifled a sudden and inexplicable inclination to giggle. Really, all this excitement was inclined to make her feel a trifle irresponsible!

  The car turned into Belgrave Square, whereupon Lady Tonbridge’s house immediately manifested itself by its brightly lit entrance and gay awning from doorway to pavement. Miss Frayle heard the hiss of a long-drawn-out sigh of resignation beside her and again wondered idly what had prompted Doctor Morelle to agree to come along tonight, since he was obviously disliking the whole idea so much.

  As if reading her thoughts, his voice, tinged with faint irony, murmured in her ear: “Judging from the number of opulent vehicles arrayed in serried ranks before us, I imagine quite a large proportion of Society’s more flamboyant representatives will be present tonight, so you should enjoy yourself!”

  She said: “I hope you will, too.”

  “I am hopeful there may be mingling with the guests a Scotland Yard official or two of my acquaintance with whom I shall be able to carry on an intelligent conversation. A sad reflection that generally there cannot be a gathering of this nature without Scotland Yard being in discreet attendance. The more notable the gathering, usually the more necessary the police.”

  Miss Frayle was saved the necessity of answering this observation, for at that moment the car drew up, the door was flung open by a footman and she was at once caught up in the glittering whirl of Lady Tonbridge’s party.

  It was all immensely satisfactory from her point of view. Exactly as she had imagined it would be: the sparkling, scented atmosphere humming with voices and music, the ballroom glittering with crystal chandeliers, the ever-changing pattern of colour, brilliant uniforms plus decorations, white ties and tails and lovely evening frocks and jewellery.

  “All in glorious technicolor!” she thought happily.

  Now Baron Xavier was bowing over her hand as if she were the one guest of the evening he had been straining at the leash to meet. Tall and dark, very like the photographs she had seen of him, he spoke English with an almost imperceptible accent. His wide, dark eyes smiled into hers as if he were sharing a little joke with her.

  Over his shoulder Miss Frayle saw with delight Doctor Morelle being led off by Lady Tonbridge. With amusement she watched the great, austere Doctor Morelle being whisked off by the white-haired, shrewd-faced little woman who scarcely reached his shoulder, and was laughing up impudently into his face. A momentary pang caught her as she wished she, too, possessed that power apparently to bewitch the Doctor.

  Presently she became aware of a young girl who stood somewhat apart and seemed to be searching among the guests for someone. She looked attractive and rather nice, she thought. Without that spoiled, enamelled look which she observed so many of the young lovelies present wore. Miss Frayle was not sure what it was about her that attracted her attention, but several times her gaze seemed to be drawn towards the slim, blonde girl. And a little later, she found herself standing near when Baron Xavier hurried up to speak to the girl. She heard him say:

  “Where is Hugh, Sherry? I’ve hunted high and low for him.”

  “I wish I knew,” was the girl’s answer. “I’m quite worried about him.”

  “Oh . . .” the Baron smiled at her, “he’ll turn up presently with some perfectly go
od excuse!”

  Then someone came up to them, began talking animatedly to Baron Xavier and, with a mechanical smile, the girl he had addressed as “Sherry” moved away. Without actually meaning to follow her, Miss Frayle seemed to continue to drift in her direction. She did pause for a moment upon realizing suddenly she had not seen Doctor Morelle for some time and, while she looked around for him, lost sight of the blonde girl. Then she glimpsed the Doctor’s tall figure brushing through the crowd in company with a short, sturdy man with a bright, bearded face whom she recognized as a distinguished Doctor of Philosophy. As they moved away, she caught the bearded man’s words:

  “Well, it all depends what you mean, Doctor Morelle . . .”

  With the secure feeling the Doctor would be happily engaged for some time, Miss Frayle once again felt herself looking out for the girl she had been unwittingly following. Then a young man with dark wavy hair came up to her and asked her to dance. She straightened her spectacles upon her nose, smiled back at him and moved into his arms.

  “Er—you’re Miss Frayle, aren’t you?” the young man asked her after a moment, and she felt a glow of pleasure that he had recognized her. It seemed he had followed many of Doctor Morelle’s cases with keen interest, and he chatted away about them as they danced.

  And then suddenly she stopped in her tracks. She was not aware her partner was babbling apologies for climbing all over her toes. Instead she was gripping his arm and asking in a low, tense voice:

  “Who’s that?”

  The other glanced in the direction she was indicating.

  “That? Sherry Carfax,” he told her. “Nice girl, too. Nothing snooty about——”

  “No—not her——” Miss Frayle’s voice was a taut squeak. “I mean—the—the man talking to her.”

  Her partner looked again. Shrugged his shoulders.

  “Why?”

  But Miss Frayle failed to hear his question. Eyes saucer-like behind her spectacles, oblivious of the rest of the dancers hurrying past, she stood staring across at the man she had last seen face to face in the mews before he had got her the taxi and had walked off into the gloom.

  Chapter Five – Sherry Carfax Is Scared

  Brightly the young man steered the conversation back to Doctor Morelle. But Miss Frayle was no longer listening to him. Her mind was not even on the music as she followed his steps automatically. For a few moments everything was blotted out by the vivid memory of that inert figure lying on his bloodstained face in the mews. And then that other man—talking now to Sherry Carfax—who had appeared upon the scene and then vanished, leaving her with an inexplicable feeling there was something strange, sinister, about him.

  True, she was unable to see him clearly at the moment. His face was half turned from her, but all the same, even though he was without a hat and in evening dress, she felt sure it was he. Over her partner’s shoulder Miss Frayle saw the girl saying something to him. She caught the bitter expression that had appeared on Sherry Carfax’s mouth and saw her eyes suddenly grow hard. Then the man laughed. As he did so he turned his head and, had Miss Frayle been faintly doubtful before, now she was certain. She had made no mistake.

  For a brief fraction his eyes seemed to stare straight into hers. Miss Frayle held her breath. Did they flicker slightly with recognition? It might have been her imagination, but it was as if they did. Anyway, he turned his head away with a sharp movement. The girl spoke to him again, and he shrugged and moved off.

  The music stopped. Miss Frayle’s partner thanked her and she smiled at him absently, her gaze searching the group towards which the man had been heading. But he had disappeared. The girl, however, was where he had left her. Her expression was angry—or was it fear?

  Impulsively Miss Frayle murmured an excuse to the young man at her elbow and crossed to the girl. Reaching her, she hesitated and then managed to stammer:

  “Er—excuse me, Miss Carfax, but—that is—do you mind if I speak to you a moment?”

  The other gave her a long, puzzled look.

  “I’m Miss Frayle . . . I’m with Doctor Morelle . . .” Miss Frayle mumbled in explanation.

  “Doctor Morelle!” The girl’s face lit up with sudden animation. “I heard he was here tonight——” She broke off, then exclaimed almost involuntarily, it seemed: “I wish he’d help me . . .” And there was a world of bitterness in her voice. “But he can’t, even if he would.” She checked herself as she realized Miss Frayle was staring at her. In a calmer tone, she went on: “You said you wanted to speak to me?”

  Miss Frayle recovered herself sufficiently to say hurriedly:

  “The man you were talking to a minute ago—could you tell me who he is? His face seemed familiar and I . . .”

  Her voice trailed off as once again she saw the curious look of bitterness and fear on the other’s face before she answered in a taut voice.

  “Charles Gresham,” she said.

  And to her increased bewilderment, Miss Frayle realized the other was almost on the verge of tears. In a low tone and voice only just controlled, the girl continued. She said:

  “If you have met him before, Miss Frayle, I can only warn you to be more careful . . . in choosing your friends.”

  Miss Frayle gulped.

  Almost in a whisper, the other went on: “I—I’m scared of him.”

  “Scared?”

  Sherry Carfax paused momentarily. Then suddenly: “D’you know Sir Hugh Albany?”

  Miss Frayle frowned. “I’ve heard of him, of course.” Then she remembered something she had read in a gossip column a little time ago. “Aren’t you engaged to him?”

  The girl nodded. Then said helplessly: “But I don’t know——” She broke off as if trying to pull herself together. “Why am I telling you all this? Why should you be interested in——”

  Miss Frayle interrupted her. “But I am interested. When I saw you just now I had a feeling we might be friends. If I can help you . . .”

  Impulsively Sherry Carfax clasped her hand. “You’re very sweet. But there’s nothing you can do. It’s only that—that——you see, Gresham pretends to be a friend of Hugh, but he isn’t. I know he isn’t. And—and I—oh, it sounds silly—but I can’t help feeling he’s got some hold over him!”

  Miss Frayle glanced round. They were in a corner of the ballroom that was away from the other guests who were watching the dancing, and the music made any danger of their being overheard negligible. She recalled a precept of Doctor Morelle’s that invariably the safest place to conduct a confidential conversation was in some crowded restaurant, or somewhere similar, under cover of music and other people’s chatter. She turned back to the girl.

  “If you really think that, why don’t you ask him?” she said.

  “I’ve so little to go on. I just feel instinctively——”

  Miss Frayle nodded. “I know,” she agreed. “Intuition. I often get the same thing myself.” She frowned thoughtfully for a moment. “I wonder if . . . That is—I’m sure if I asked Doctor Morelle——”

  “No . . .” Sherry Carfax shook her head slowly. “It’s something I’ve got to cope with myself. If there was anything tangible . . .” She left the sentence unfinished and asked: “You haven’t seen him here this evening, I suppose?”

  Miss Frayle managed to catch up with the sudden question.

  “Sir Hugh Albany? . . . No.”

  She looked at the other curiously. A tingling sensation was beginning to run up and down her spine. She was experiencing the uncomfortable conviction she was on the verge of something outside the ordinary run of things. Something carrying undertones of menace which she wanted to push away from her. She looked round quickly to gain some reassurance from the dancers sweeping past, all so romantically gay. Was it possible anything menacing or sinister could exist in such surroundings?

  Miss Frayle made an effort to laugh her apprehension away, turned back to Sherry Carfax. Again saw in her eyes that shadowed, frightened look which no bright music and gaiety
could cover up. The girl was saying:

  “I’ll try ringing his flat again . . . There was no answer when I tried earlier, but . . .” She paused, hesitated, then with a sort of hurried shyness: “Would you come with me?”

  They found a telephone off the hall and Miss Frayle waited while the other dialled a number. She could hear the burr-burr at the other end and there was something almost suspenseful in the sound as she waited for it to be answered. The burring continued and finally Sherry Carfax replaced the receiver.

  “No answer.”

  “You’re sure he hasn’t arrived here?”

  But she seemed not to hear. Her mouth tightened. “I’m going to his flat,” she said with a sudden resolution. Miss Frayle followed after her.

  “Yes,” she agreed helpfully, “perhaps he’s left a note there or something.” She managed to mumble: “Would you like me to come with you?”

  The other smiled at her tremulously. “I would like. Frankly”—she gave a nervous little laugh—“I’m worried.”

  “I’ll just tell Doctor Morelle,” Miss Frayle said quickly. “Shan’t be two or three minutes.”

  She realized almost at once, however, that to find the Doctor was easier said than done. There were far too many guests, and she could not see him or Lady Tonbridge anywhere. After questioning several people without any success she decided to give up the search and hurried back to Sherry Carfax, who was waiting for her in the hall.

  “I’ll explain to the Doctor later,” Miss Frayle told her breathlessly. “I don’t suppose we’ll be long.”

  “Oh no,” the other reassured her. “It’s only Jermyn Street.”

  A footman whistled a taxi out of the night for them. As they got in the girl glanced at her jewelled wristlet-watch. It was just on eleven o’clock.”

  Less than ten minutes later the taxi drew up outside a narrow old-fashioned block of flats at the St. James’s end of Jermyn Street. A marble staircase spiralled upwards around the shaft of an ornate lift. From the basement ascended the faint acrid odour of central-heating boilers. Hanging on the open door of the lift as they approached was a card: